


Psychedelic

by Darlinxx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys Kissing, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gentle Kissing, Humor, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Switching, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Yeah they kiss a lot here sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26534917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darlinxx/pseuds/Darlinxx
Summary: It isn’t supposed to be like this —not between them, not this gentle, Harry thinks with no small amount of confusion as Draco’s mouth presses fleeting kisses up the side of his neck to the back of his ear. It has always been about passion of the rawest kind – a need to tear each other apart, a desire to see everything they were – between them, but even when it’s this gentle, this new, Harry figures he doesn’t mind. It feels good, in a different way.Draco discovers that as spectacularly hopeless as he is at expressing himself with words, he excels at communicating through skin.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 154





	Psychedelic

**Author's Note:**

> I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THIS WHEN I UPLOADED IT A FEW HOURS AGO HAHAHAHA *a dumbass*

The first time they do it is something of a disaster.

It is awkward, to say the least. Not silent-embarrassed-awkward, just angry-frustrated-awkward. This is partly because Harry can't be silent to save his own life – let alone Draco's – and has never had the decency to be embarrassed, but mostly because Draco is, and always has been, angry and frustrated.

It's also mainly because Draco's currently intent on sucking Harry's soul out through his mouth.

It is more an inelegant collision of tongues and teeth rather than a kiss. Sloppily sliding mouths and hopelessly confused groans of what could've been pleasure or pain. Draco attacks with a ferocity reminiscent of battle, intense and unflinching, as his mouth works on long-suppressed carnal instinct alone, which does nothing to temper his lack of technique.

Harry opens his mouth to let out a startled yell and Draco, ever the opportunist, shoves his tongue in without thought.

The tactless slide of tongues against teeth, tense jaw lines and Draco's desire to smother Harry –  _ nervousness _ – ends only in a poor imitation of a kiss. Harry jerks back, his lips bleeding and his lungs burning with lack of oxygen.

Draco growls (actually  _ growls! _ ), tries to lean forward and kiss him again, but Harry shoves a rough palm at Draco's chest, effectively putting some distance between them. He pants as if he's been smothered with a rather plump pillow and wipes his abused lips on his forearm with a cautiousness he rarely displays. His mouth still stings and bloody saliva comes away on his hand.

It’s kind of gross.

Harry gapes, appalled.

Then, taking a leaf out of his lover-to-be's book, he glares at Draco. It's pretty obvious that Draco is nervous but of course, Harry – being  _ Harry _ – is as oblivious as ever and doesn't notice.

Harry gestures wildly towards his mouth. "You call  _ that _ kissing?! Were you trying to suffocate me to death?"

Draco blinks as he registers the italics in Harry’s words, still trying to process what the hell just happened, and then he catches sight of Harry's torn lips. It isn't pretty.

Draco scowls and tries to save his wounded pride. "As if you could do any better."

A second later, he remembers to add, "Scarhead."

"I—why you—what!" Harry splutters. He grabs Draco's collar, because violence has now become the best course of action.

"I can!" Harry boasts in his  _ anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better _ voice, although truth be told, his experience in such matters is non-existent.

Draco’s eyes narrow –  _ who exactly has he been practicing with? _ – but he's careful to direct only a look of bored disbelief at him. "Huh, that's hard to believe."

Then, without taking his eyes off of Harry, he wipes the saliva from his lower lip with his thumb. The motion reminds Harry of something  _ sensual. _

It suddenly doesn't matter that Draco is a terrible kisser because his lips look as irresistible as treacle tart right now, and – oh God – he's  _ pouting _ .

Harry figures it's his turn to get revenge. "Watch me."

Then he lunges and it all goes downhill from there.

**-|-**

The first time, they come out with more bruises than if they had beat the shit out of each other, hurting in places they never knew existed. They can't stop making thinly veiled insults pertaining to each other’s sexual prowess for days.

The second time, they are more hesitant because neither of them want a repeat of the first time and both are wary of accidentally prodding wounds not yet healed.

It takes only a stray comment to set them off again and this time, they come out worse than before. They walk with distinctive limps for days, asses pounding with indignation.

Harry decides they're both suckers for punishment when they keep coming back for more.

The sixth time, they finally get it right—

—in the sense that Harry doesn't slobber all over Draco, and Draco stops being an insensitive jerk. At least they aren't pulling at each other's hair anymore.

Of course, a scuffle is almost a requirement before any sort of intimacy can be pursued between them because it's just not the same otherwise.

Harry doesn't quite know when he started thinking of their disastrous wrestling matches as foreplay.

And for once, he isn't enjoying the hurried pace, the frenzied clash of limb against limb, the persistent grappling for dominance, the fevered rush of adrenaline. For once, he just wants to feel Draco  _ there _ , all of him, not just a few, frantic rubs of his pelvis or the dents his fingers press into Harry's back.

It doesn't matter that he had 'accidentally' torn apart the front of Draco's shirt – his own isn't in better shape anyway. What matters now is that he needs more contact, so he grips Draco by the elbows to root him in place, thumbs ghosting over blue veins nestled in the bend, before he hooks a knee around Draco's leg and sends them both crashing to the floor, all lanky limbs and strangled breathing.

It is a moment before either of them does anything – their harsh pants sound loud in the ensuing silence.

Draco's head throbs from impact with the floor and if he has to have a lobotomy one of these days to treat mental illness, he's charging Harry with the bill. Draco's sure he's cracked a hip bone – it's hard to tell, when Harry is grinding against him like that. And he thinks that maybe a dislocated shoulder may pop back in place if he keeps struggling against Harry long enough, but Harry doesn't let him.

He leans down until their chests are pressed together, stone slabs melting into each other, skin and sweat. Draco freezes at the heat of Harry's body against his, hearts hammering in unison in an untamed rhythm. Harry regards him with an unreadable look, a look that makes Draco want to look away – but he  _ doesn't _ .

Harry's thumbs dig into the crook of his elbows, and that's all the warning he gets before Harry swoops down, brushing his lips against Draco's.

Draco stays still and wonders if he cracked his spine when they fell. He can't move.

Harry's lips are immobile upon his for a second that feels like an eternity before moving, each twitch of lips deliberate, each movement brazenly slow and uncharacteristic.

Harry's brow furrows in concentration – Draco's breath hitches at the expression and he stares at Harry's closed lids. He should probably say something – protest to being forcibly held down – but Harry's tongue probes at one corner of his mouth, as if trying to twitch it into a smile and—

—it hits him all of a sudden.

They aren't wrestling anymore, they aren't clawing at each other just because they can, they aren't fighting for dominance. Harry is trying to kiss him like he  _ means it _ and it feels so good.

_ Move _ , Draco commands his fingers, because he knows he should  _ do something _ , because this time it's  _ different _ . His fingers twitch, but don't obey.

Harry angles his mouth against his, sweeps his tongue over the tips of his teeth –  _ teeth! _ – and exhales, and they tingle in a way that isn't at all unwelcome. Draco suddenly finds the willpower to grab his arms, to hold on to them and kiss him back with a fervor that takes Harry aback and makes him choke out a surprised laugh against his lips.

Draco’s hands travel up broad shoulders and fist painfully in dark hair. Harry lets out a most interesting noise, a noise sends a flush of heat through Draco’s groin.

There's something stimulating about wet tongues sliding leisurely against each other, something addictive about feeling another's chest reverberate with moans that crawl out without permission (moans that crawl through their skins and stay there long after it's all over), something deeply arousing about nipples puckering in anticipation and Draco can't figure out why everything feels so  _ different _ this time.

He wonders through a haze of arousal if it’s always supposed to feel like this.

Harry pulls away, grinning breathlessly. Draco notices his face is flushed, a charming red dusting across his nose and cheeks. He's sure his face isn't faring any better.

Draco recovers first and asks hoarsely, "What was that?"

"A… kiss," Harry answers, sounding slightly surprised, as if he had just had an epiphany. "A kiss," he says again, this time with more conviction.

"I know that," Draco snaps, a blush that screams  _ 'I'm-embarrassed-but-trying-to-hide-it' _ staining the tips of his ears. He struggles for words, eyes wide. "But that wasn't what I meant! That —was…"

"Good," Harry catches his line of thought before it drowns unspoken. "That felt really good."

"…Yeah."

Silence reigns for a long moment in which they stare stupidly at each other, wondering what the hell they ought to do now. Harry comes up with a simple solution.

"So, uh…" Harry clears his throat and blurts out too eagerly, "Wanna do that again?"

Draco grunts, manages to sound annoyed. "What do you think?"

That's all the answer Harry needs.

**-|-**

Blunt nails dig into tightly corded muscles and into dips created by straining biceps. Strong shoulders, scarred with bearing burdens alone, hover over him and block out the sparse neon streetlights filtering in through the curtains. The play of light and shadow throws Draco's features into sharp relief. Heat blooms behind his silver eyes, almost moonlike in its incandescence now. Draco's tongue travels down his body, pausing only to dip into his navel –  _ hey! That tickles! _ – before resuming its southward exploration. He feels the brush of Draco's artfully arranged mess of hair between his thighs, feels the long, pale digits – rough and deliberate – at the curve of his butt. Harry knows it is only a matter of time before the bridge of Draco's aristocratic nose traces the vein on the underside of his pulsing cock, before that talented tongue – lazy and sure and aggressive – flicks out and licks his―

"What the  _ hell _ do you think you're doing, you– you crazy, perverted bastard!"

The indignant protest is almost a shriek. A very high-pitched shriek. But Harry is too embarrassed by the situation at hand to be embarrassed by something as trivial and inconsequential as a high-pitched shriek. That had just come out of his throat…damn, Draco would never let him live it down.

He is sure of one thing: if anyone is a pervert here, it's definitely Draco, and for the love of Merlin, his tongue  _ did not just go there _ .

Harry isn't exactly sure when he had sat up flat on his ass, which he is suddenly very protective of, and he isn't really sure why Draco is holding his nose. Harry seems to recall his knee hitting something when he had leapt up in panic.

"You imbecile," Draco – annoyed voice muffled by his hand – says in a carefully measured voice as they glare at each other. "Stop overreacting."

"Over _ reacting _ ? I wasn't  _ overreacting _ you bastard!" He spits out the word as if it is poison and Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes at the sheer amount of drama. And then, in an inadvertent contradiction, Harry shouts, embarrassment stamped in big red letters all over his face, "How else was I supposed to react! You were about to lick my asshole, you asshole!"

Draco allows himself a small grimace at Harry's graceless choice of words. Even a knee to the nose hasn't been able to deter his arousal and Draco isn't sure he would live a second longer if he doesn't abuse Harry's ass. Now. "Forget that. Just— come here."

He tries to reach out to Harry and Harry looks at him as if he has just grown horns. Draco is annoyed. He hasn't grown horns. He's just horny.

Harry leaps from the bed with surprising fluidity before Draco can reach him.

He points an accusing finger at Draco. "Oh no, we're not doing this anymore. I'm outta here!"

Draco glares. "Harry, don't be stubborn."

"I'm not being stubborn, you insensitive—" And then, as Draco starts moving — _ crawling _ —towards him: "Hey, hey!"

Harry panics and regrets ever agreeing to this. Draco is looking at him like he’s edible.

"Don't come near me!” Harry loudly warns in what he hopes is an intimidating voice, “I'm warning you!"

"Or what?" Draco mocks, smirking, and then he leaps at a flustered Harry—

—and is punched in the jaw so hard that he sees stars.

With triumphant cries of "Ha! Serves you right, bastard!" ringing in his ears, Draco blinks the black from his eyes and, when he recovers enough to gather his wits, glares.

Harry stands in the middle of his room, naked and gleeful and as smug as the day he had stolen Hermione's tampon… and lived. Draco seethes.

This means  _ war _ .

-|-

It takes a lot of growling and biting on Draco's part and insults and hair-pulling on Harry's before Harry goes down, kicking and screaming all the while. When he finally does, they're both panting— like two idiotic teenage boys who have just experienced the most arousing wrestling match they have ever known.

_ Shit _ , Draco curses when Harry clocks him on the jaw. He manages to recover fast enough to drive a knee into Harry's gut – carefully aiming away from the groin, because he hasn't stooped to Harry's level yet and that underhanded move would do nothing to further his own goals.

When he finally manages to pin Harry down, Harry has a defiant snarl and a mutinous glare fixed on his face.

"That hurt, damn it!" Harry growls, short of breath.

Draco manages an impressive sneer despite a split lip and a purple bruise blooming on his jaw. "That was the point."

"Fucking bastard."

They glare at each other, Harry obstinate and Draco somewhat curiously. Silence falls.

After a beat, Draco notes blandly, "It's not like you haven't had bigger things up there before."

Harry reddens and splutters. 

Then Draco tilts his head in contemplation and smirks in that patronizing way of his. "Or are you just not man enough….?"

The words are barely out of his mouth before Harry  _ headbutts _ him of all things. Draco lets out a cry of pain and swears to take revenge, but he mostly just swears. He tips to the side like a mechanical doll with dead batteries and  _ ow fuck, that hurt _ . He tells Harry so in no uncertain terms.

"That was the point," Harry drawls in an absurdly accurate imitation of his voice, throwing his words right back at him.

_ Psychedelic _ , Draco thinks dizzily when Harry, a canvas of blue and black and purple and— _ are those stars? _ —leans over to laugh at him.

Harry sadistically pokes him in the ribs and Draco decides he hates the world.

**-|-**

Harry only agrees when Draco, exasperated, tells him, "Just trust me, okay?"

The next day, Ron doesn't say anything when he notices that Harry winces with every other step. He only wonders when they'll figure out how to use lube.

**-|-**

It isn’t like the first time anymore – the confusion, the passion, the intensity has petered out into something indefinable, something foreign. Harry’s breath leaves his lungs in a rush when long, calloused fingers graze up his spine and he throws his head back, shamelessly bares his neck.

It isn’t supposed to be like this —not between them, not this gentle, Harry thinks with no small amount of confusion as Draco’s mouth presses fleeting kisses up the side of his neck to the back of his ear. It has always been about passion of the rawest kind – a need to tear each other apart, a desire to see everything they were – between them, but even when it’s this gentle, this  _ new _ , Harry figures he doesn’t mind. It feels good, in a different way.

Draco discovers that as spectacularly hopeless as he is at expressing himself with words, he excels at communicating through skin.

He bites at the tender spot below Harry’s navel in a way he knows Harry will remember; Harry’s eyes narrow with sudden ferocity.

He wants Draco stripped down to the bones. Draco wants him between his legs.

“I want this—” Harry’s words are an honest admission against his lips and Draco can almost pretend he’s the one saying them. But he only bucks back when Harry grinds their cocks together and curses in between gasps of air.

“I want this,” Harry growls again because it’s true. Draco believes him. “Fuck, I want this— I want to—”

Draco knows what they both want.

He parts his legs and forgets not to moan.

Lips brush against sweaty temples. Teeth bite the soft skin in the hollow of ribs. Nipples pucker in anticipation.

_ How does this feel? _

Moans come out muffled against a strong shoulder. Pale legs wrap around a sculpted back and heels dig in.

_ Harder. More. _

A hand slips in between sweaty bodies. Rough fingers wrap around a thick cock and squeeze.

_ Like this...? _

Pale fingers leave approving dents on narrow hips.

_ Good, just like that. _

-|-

When Draco asked him why Harry wanted to keep this – them – a secret, in his own subtle way, Harry got the hint and decided maybe honesty really was the best policy and yes, Draco deserved to know.

Harry stomped on the ground; he couldn’t form an answer and it was all Draco's fault. Verbal impairment was surely a side effect of spending time with Draco and even if he  _ could _ articulate his thoughts – feelings – Draco wouldn't understand.

So Harry kissed him instead and hoped feelings could diffuse through skin, hoped Draco would understand. Draco didn't, if his unmoving lips and confounded eyes were any indication.

That only prompted Harry to fist his hands into Draco's hair, steel his resolve and kiss him harder, tongue forcefully shoving their way past soft, dry lips without a thought. He shoved a thigh between Draco's legs and concentrated on the tedious task of making Draco moan.

Harry had never considered himself to be particularly selfish – it was hard to be selfish when you had never had anything to be selfish about.

Draco wouldn't understand because while he had had a family to be selfish about, Harry had been alone from the start. He had been prepared to give away everything and ask for nothing but acceptance in return.

Draco was selfish and Harry wasn't selfish enough.

It should be a perfect combination, a much-sought-after equilibrium, but it was not.

Because for once, Harry wanted to be selfish. Because for once, he had something – someone – that no one else had and the knowledge thrilled him, made his chest ache with joy, made him want to keep it all to himself and share with no one that knowledge that he was not only accepted, but needed, wanted.

To Harry, being wanted was something like air, and being wanted by Draco Malfoy was something sacred, something he wanted to keep a secret, to be certain that this knowledge was his, and his alone.

When Harry pulled away, panting, hands digging into slim hipbones in a desperate show of possessiveness, Draco was part astonished (because Harry had never been that aggressive with his tongue), part aroused, but really just confused at Harry’s unprecedented enthusiasm.

Because as bad as he was with words, with feelings, he was worse.

Harry sighed in acknowledgement of that universal truth and when all Draco murmured was a bewildered "What was that about?" after being kissed to within an inch of his life, Harry decided that whoever said actions spoke louder than words, had been completely, utterly  _ wrong _ .

It took both feelings and words to get to Draco.

Harry's hands came up to cup Draco's face and he finally whispered a single word, soft and simple, against parted lips: "Mine."

And Draco understood.

**-|-**

There are some things they never talk about.

Draco discovers that passion mellows with time, even though feelings only grow. That knowledge allows him to slow down, to observe, to etch into his memory how Harry screams  _ I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I swear! _ every time Draco roughly parts his thighs the way he likes it best, plunging in and setting an excruciatingly  _ slow _ pace.

He never takes Harry's threats seriously because all he hears is  _ More, I want this, I want you _ and he loves it. He loves it when sometimes Harry presses their naked bodies together like he's trying to melt into him, like he's trying to crawl under his skin and under his scars in an attempt to feel all of him, if only for a while.

When Harry presses their foreheads together afterwards, Draco closes his eyes and wonders if this is what it's like to share the same fate.

**-|-**

The sunlight wakes him up.

Draco opens his eyes, slowly, and sees light playing on the nape of a tanned neck. Harry looks peaceful, draped in that inviting, golden light and Draco doesn’t fight the impulse to weave his fingers into messy dark hair.

Sunlight shouldn’t have a smell. Sunlight shouldn’t have a taste. But it does.

He smells it in the crook of Harry’s neck, warm and crisp. Tastes it, salty and wet, when he licks at the exact same spot. Draco leans over and embraces Harry sleepily, his arms pulling the other man closer of their own volition.

He sighs, exhausted, into Harry’s hair and wishes this could go on, just a bit longer.

When the watery light from the curtained windows strikes his eyes, he closes them and concentrates instead on the sound of Harry’s breathing, the beat of his heart, the heat of his skin. Sunlight feels like Harry.

“Oi… didn’t know you liked to cuddle.”

Draco’s eyes snap open, the haziness pervading his mind vanishing in an instant, and he tries to jerk back immediately. Harry’s arm closes around his back and stops him and he wonders for a second if he should struggle more or just begrudgingly allow himself to remain there.

It’s an easy decision and Draco allows himself to leisurely feel Harry’s skin against his, to relax (but only because he’s too tired to resist right now, he tells himself).

“I don’t cuddle,” Draco tells the man under him, murmurs the words into his ear.

Harry chuckles, deep and husky, against Draco’s neck. “Yeah, well you’re doing it right now.”

“Shut up,” Draco grumbles lazily, lips moving against the hollow of Harry’s throat. He feels it vibrate when NHarry hums, just as indolently – the hum turns into am almost- purr when Draco scratches behind Harry’s ear and bites at the skin on his clavicle.

The sheets rustle when Harry’s thigh drags against his, slow and languorous, and that’s all Draco needs to tilt his head up and kiss Harry.

It happens, unhurried and subtle, each touch carrying a secret meaning, each moan a declaration, each kiss an emotion.

This time, when Harry’s fingers thread into his hair, they don’t yank – they tug, gently, as a sure, familiar mouth moves against his, pulling away before coming back together, again and again. 

Harry’s blunt nails don’t dig into his hips when Draco thrusts in and  _ moves _ ; they don’t clutch at the sheets or scratch at Draco’s back. They intertwine with pale fingers. Rough hands grip each other in ecstasy.

It’s a strange, surreal sort of fulfillment, a sliver of solace and everything of each other.

Draco’s life is filled with things gone wrong and things he’s done wrong. But when Harry squeezes his hand like a lifeline, like he never wants this to end, Draco knows he’s finally done something right.

It takes two years to admit that they’re something more, one to finally kiss Harry and another three to get here. But, at twenty-one, he has learned to trade yesterday for tomorrow and knows that none of that really matters.

In the end, all that matters is that they’re here, that this is real.

When Harry asks if he’s up for another round, Draco Malfoy smothers a chuckle into his shoulder and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I had fun writing this, and I hope you find it as enjoyable as I did. Comments are ALWAYS welcome :) 
> 
> I hope to see you in my future drarry fics!
> 
> With love,  
> Darlinxx


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